The last items she pulled from her case were three brass-framed photographs, which she set on the dressing-table. One was of a smiling middle-aged couple against a backdrop of ocean. She had taken the snap four years ago when, following her father’s retirement from his plumbing business, her parents had moved to the north coast of New South Wales.
The second photograph was of her five brothers— Greg, Drew, Scott, Brad and Matt. Scott and Matt were both single while the other three were married with seven children between them. The remaining snap was of the children and their mothers.
Bart waited for her as she descended the stairs.
‘Settled in?’
‘Yes, thanks.’ She gave him a wide smile. ‘It never takes me long.’
‘Good. Lisa has dinner ready, so we better get in there.’ He stood aside to allow her to pass, hoping she didn’t have a sensitive stomach—his daughter’s cooking was definitely an acquired taste!
‘Wow! I love your hair!’
‘Thanks!’ Alessandra smiled pleasantly at the teenage girl, who hadn’t waited for a formal introduction.
‘Is it bleached?’
‘Lisa!’
‘Only by the sun,’ Alessandra replied, ignoring Bart’s apologetic expression at what he considered rudeness on his daughter’s part.
‘I wish I was a blonde!’ Lisa Cameron sighed, pushing savagely at her waist-length dark hair.
‘I dyed mine black once when I was thirteen,’ Alessandra confessed, and laughed at the teenager’s horrified expression. ‘My parents’ facial reaction was pretty much similar to yours now!’
‘Dad would kill me if I changed mine!’ she said with more than a trace of resentment.
‘You’ve got that right,’ Bart Cameron stated.
‘Why?’ Alessandra asked, causing both heads to swing in her direction. ‘It’s her hair.’
‘That’s what I keep telling him!’ Lisa said.
Bart sent a controlled glare across to his most recent employee.
‘Lisa is only seventeen years old,’ he replied, as if that explained everything.
‘Nearly eighteen!’ his daughter responded.
‘With luck you might make it.’
The tone of the exchange between father and daughter told Alessandra she had walked into a struggle of awakening independence versus old-fashioned discipline. The atmosphere wouldn’t be dull around here, that was for sure, even if the cutlery was. Cripes! How was a person expected to cut steak with a blunt knife? She diverted her plan of attack to the creamed potatoes, only to wish she hadn’t as the half-cooked vegetable caused her to gag.
‘You OK?’ Bart Cameron enquired, and Alessandra wasn’t sure whether she imagined the hint of humour she saw in his eyes.
‘Eh, sure! A bit just went down the wrong way,’ she lied, now suspecting that the inability to cut the steak lay in its cooking and not the knife. ‘Do you kill your own meat?’ she asked, in an effort to forestall having to take another mouthful.
‘Usually. The Rough Rivers Brand has the reputation of producing some of the finest beef cattle on either side of the Pacific.’
Alessandra tried to look impressed, while wishing that it hadn’t lost quite so much of its reputation on the way to her plate!
‘We have beef for dinner every night when the housekeeper is on vacation. It’s the only thing Lisa feels confident about cooking.’
God help us if she ever tries to tackle anything else! Alessandra prayed silently as she managed to sever another piece of meat and insult her taste-buds with it.
From then on conversation was limited to enquiries about the health of Marilyn and her family, and Alessandra explained how she had met Bart’s sister in California and become firm friends with the older woman and her husband and children. It was Marilyn, knowing that Alessandra was planning to return to Australia for the summer, who had suggested that she apply for the job at Rough Rivers.
When Bart began to talk to Alessandra about the ranch’s accounting system, Lisa announced she had a date and excused herself from the table in the wake of a paternal instruction to be home before midnight.
Through it all Alessandra continued to try and force herself to eat; finally she gave in and pushed the plate aside. She looked across the table to find her employer leaning back in his chair watching her. His gaze caused a pool of warm liquid to settle in her lower abdomen.
‘Well, that was certainly…filling,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t eat another bite.’
‘Not many people would,’ Bart replied drily. ‘Lisa isn’t exactly overly talented in the kitchen.’
His humour was no longer only hinted at, but bursting out in a smile so dazzling that Alessandra felt almost giddy.
‘Now there’s an understatement! May I ask what perverse pleasure you get out of watching visitors choke on raw vegetables and charred steak?’ she asked, having no intention of making polite noises about how it wasn’t that bad.
‘I figure it’s about time Lisa learnt to cook…’
‘At what cost? A manslaughter charge?’
‘She’ll get better with practice,’ Bart stated.
‘It would be healthier for everyone if she got better with instruction! Besides, cooking isn’t absolutely essential to a woman’s armoury these days. Wouldn’t you be better off hiring a replacement while your regular housekeeper is away?’
‘Lisa wouldn’t make any effort at all then. Can you cook?’ he asked.
‘No. But I’m sure as hell better than your daughter! Which isn’t to say I’m prepared to take over the task, if that’s what you have in mind.’
‘It wasn’t,’ he assured her, standing and commencing to clear the plates from the table. ‘Would you care for dessert?’
‘Only if it comes out of a tin.’
‘What about frozen pecan pie and ice-cream? I’ll even defrost the pie first,’ he promised. ‘Though I’m not sure Lisa would.’
Alessandra wondered whether he would use the microwave or simply conserve power by directing his denim-blue eyes on it; for a man who wasn’t good-looking he certainly had some powerful extras!
‘Suddenly I’m starving again! And as a dedicated, card-carrying member of the women’s movement I feel obligated to enjoy having a man cook for me!’
By mutual consent they ate their dessert in the kitchen.
‘What made you decide to become a rancher? Marilyn told me you both grew up in Dallas.’
‘Even as a kid I always preferred country life over the city. My uncle used to let me spend every vacation on his ranch, working for him. When I was old enough to quit school I did and moved out there for good. When my uncle died he left the ranch to me. Twelve months ago I decided to take a chance and began looking around for an Australian property.’ He shrugged. ‘So here I am.’
‘You don’t regret it?’ she queried, sensing the conversation would end there if she didn’t.
‘Why